


The Great Snuggie War

by AgentFreeWill



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bobby Singer Deals With Idjits, Down to Agincourt, Endverse, Gen, No Slash, Retail Therapy, disrespect of possessions, firey retaliation, implied Dean/OFC, they're fighting ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 08:05:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4659021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentFreeWill/pseuds/AgentFreeWill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas engages in some late night retail therapy, Dean gets mad.</p><p>Timestamp which takes place before the events of SPN end!verse episode (5x04) but after the timeline split. (Sometime before end!verse Sam said yes to Lucifer but after Sam and Dean stopped talking to each other.) Cas has not yet fallen. </p><p>Based on a conversation Dean and Cas had in "It's The Stars That Lie", chapter 6. Contains one other very minor Down To Agincourt spoiler, but can be read as a stand alone story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Snuggie War

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [It's the Stars That Lie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2033814) by [seperis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis). 



Cas has been staring unseeing at the television for hours, replaying the day’s (week’s, month’s) events in his head. Today’s argument had been particularly trying; a not-unimpressive feat since most day’s arguments were to some degree. Dictionary, entry: trying, picture of Dean. From today. He can’t escape the uncomfortable feeling that he’s part of the problem (but he doesn’t know _how_ ), and at the same time he jealously hoards any interaction with Dean and thinks he’d do it the same way all over again. 

Dinner earlier had been quiet; neither Cas nor Bobby really wanted to talk about the day (Dean was elsewhere again, typical) although Cas had caught Bobby looking at him cautiously like he might implode at the table (he would never be so rude). He had ignored that, doggedly eating spaghetti like it was an unpleasant duty to slog through as quickly as possible. (It kind of was.) The same awkward silence had followed them into the living room where Cas stationed himself in the flickering light of the television. Bobby had long since given up and retired for the night.

With a start he glances at the wall clock which has just chimed three— _beautiful craftsmanship, those Germans_ —and shakes his head as if to help to clear his thoughts. On the television a loud and somewhat obnoxious voice is extolling the virtues of—he tilts his head and focuses on the screen—what are those? He frowns at the images of happy people covered in...is that a blanket? With arms? Fascinated, he can’t stop watching. The people look so _comfortable_. 

“And these wonderful Snuggies can be yours for the low low price of $19.99! Want to share a Snuggie with someone special? Get two for just $10 more!” the off-screen announcer exclaims cheerfully. Cas resentfully wonders why he is so cheerful; some crossroads demon is probably very happy. “Just call this number on your screen and our operators will be standing by!” 

Cas shifts on the couch, and rubs his leg, absently feeling the pockets and texture of his cargo pants. _Are those just robes? Fuzzy robes? Worn backwards?_ His hand snags on his wallet. He pulls it out reflexively, then stops and stares at it. He watches himself open the wallet and pull out the credit card Dean had given him, fighting a sense of unreality, then snaps up.

 _I can buy these… Snuggies_ , he thinks. _They can keep me warm. I like being warm._

He reaches for his phone, discarded earlier on a pile of papers on the end table by the couch. The number is still scrolling across the bottom of the television screen, but he doesn’t need to refer to it. Sometimes perfect memory has its advantages.

“Hello, welcome to the Snuggie Hotline! Would you like to buy a Snuggie?” The female voice that greets him is bored, displaying none of the distracting cheerfulness of the television announcer. 

Cas ignores this. “Yes,” he states.

“Can I get your name, sir?” She could be speaking to someone else, the words rote and rehearsed.

Cas squints at the credit card. Why he can’t just say _Castiel Singer_ …he sighs. “Frederick Mercury.”

“Okay, thanks Frederick, what color do you want?”

Cas pauses. What color _does_ he want? “What colors do you have?” 

“Um, lots of colors. All the basic solid colors—white, black, brown, tan, green, dark blue, light blue, red, yellow. And then there are the patterns: stripes, plaid, animal prints, floral, paisley. All the patterns come in various color combinations—if you think you’d want one of those I can look up what’s available.” She’s clicking a pen; he can only just hear it.

The various colors flick through Cas’s mind, alternate versions of what’s on the screen in front of him. He pushes aside the sudden (satisfying) thought of Bobby sitting on the couch in a plaid Snuggie. He imagines being surrounded by all the colors, all the patterns. He…can’t choose.

“I’ll take them all.” He stills, wide-eyed at the taste of those words.

There is a pause on the other end of the line. “You’ll… _what_?”

“I’ll take them all,” he repeats, a small knot of anticipation forming in his stomach. 

There is breathing on the other end of the phone for a moment and then the voice rushes in to fill the silence. “Okay! Okay, great! Great. I’ll definitely get that order going for you. We currently have 82 different colors and patterns in stock. What, um, what size would you like them in?”

Cas frowns. There is _another_ decision to make? He’s not sure what his limits on impulsivity are, he’s never tested them like this. “What sizes do you have?”

“Small, medium, large, extra-large, and a few colors come in extra small and extra-extra large.”

“How would I know what size I need?” Cas reflects on all of the different ways to measure that humans have come up with over the millennia; he never would have expected he’d have to know how they applied to him. 

“Um... what was the size of the last shirt you bought?” The words roll out slowly, as politeness and incredulity fight for prominence.

Cas has a flash of Dean throwing a pile of t-shirts at him, of Bobby helping him sort through clothes in a church basement, of borrowing from Dean and hoping he didn’t notice or care. He doesn’t want to explain to the voice on the phone how he’s never paid attention to buying clothes.

“It doesn’t matter. Give me all of them.” The television continues to show him a preview of what he’s buying. _They look so warm and happy._

The voice is silent again. Then cautiously breathes: “All of them?”

“All of them,” Cas agrees magnanimously. 

“If… if you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll get your order ready.” The voice sounds faint, a little shell-shocked. Cas recognizes what shell-shocked sounds like. He is not sure why it applies in this particular conversation—it is, after all, her job to take orders, is it not? He also understands taking orders. He grimaces, and carefully does _not_ go back to thinking about what happened today. Instead he returns to contemplating the oddly satisfying thought of being surrounded by piles of colorful warmth. 

“Oookaay….” The voice is back. “You have ordered 368 Snuggies, for a total of $5979.61.” Another pause; then carefully, as though not to scare him, “Do you have your credit card number ready, sir?”

Cas confidently recites the number, and does not think about Dean’s reaction. He was given this card to purchase things he needs, like food and clothes. He’s purchasing clothes. 

“And your address?”

Bobby had said just yesterday that they would probably be here for at least couple of weeks before heading out on the road again; Bobby’s address will do fine. He tells the voice, distantly wondering about her varying emotional state over the course of the call.

“Excellent. Um, I’ll put this through right away and you’ll have your order delivered in 2 weeks. Thank you so much for purchasing from the Snuggie Hotline!” The information is delivered with a slight quaver; no hint of the earlier boredom. 

“You’re welcome.” Cas hangs up and stares at the phone. He feels a sense of accomplishment welling up, and continues to sit on the couch, in a much better mood than earlier. He apparently did have adequate reserves of impulsivity for this endeavor; perhaps further limit testing should occur in the future.

_____________

Two weeks later, when nineteen boxes show up at Bobby’s house, Dean is angry. No, Dean is _furious._

“You spent _how much_?” He stands in the middle of the living room, his face hot, staring at Cas, who is sitting on the floor calmly opening boxes and sorting Snuggies (20 per box), seeming unperturbed by the recrimination rolling off Dean. There are piles of fuzzy cloth everywhere, roughly ordered by color. Recrimination spreads out and settles in amongst the many piles and gets comfortable. Dean is dumbfounded at finding himself in a situation where Cas has an _organization system_ for _bathrobes, my god._

“$5979.61.” Cas fetches another item from the box in front of him and manages to look like taking off the plastic wrapping is the most interesting thing he’s done in years. 

“And how _the fuck_ did you think that was a good idea?” Dean stills his hand; is he shaking? 

Cas ignores him and shakes out a blue-and-yellow zebra-striped Snuggie. He holds it out. “You may have this one, Dean; I have plenty.” Dean wonders if Gabriel is laughing in the hall, _what is happening._

“I don’t want your fucking zebra…” Dean trails off, steeling himself. He closes his eyes and entertains the thought of all the Snuggies going through a woodchipper, but they are traitorously followed by piles of cash and suddenly the image is less satisfying. He takes a deep breath. “Okay, fine. Whatever. I can’t even deal with this right now.” He stomps towards the door, coming _this close_ to kicking every pile he passes. He pauses at the last moment to stoop down and swipe…a cheetah print in turquoise? And brown? What the fuck? “I’ll take this one, though, give it to Candy. Bet she’ll like it.” He smirks back at Cas.

Cas is staring at him, momentarily frozen behind a half-emptied box. Then he unfurls and hisses, “You cannot have that one, Dean—it is a _limited edition,_ the _only one of its kind._ ” 

Dean knows better than to stick around when Cas looks like that. “How can you even tell, Cas?” he says as he escapes through the door. “Have fun, don’t wait up.” He can’t drive away fast enough, half-surprised he wasn’t stopped by a vengeful angel blocking the road.

_____________

In the house, Cas is standing still, clenching and unclenching his fists, as the sound of the Impala driving away fills the house. He can’t think. These were _his_ clothes, _his_ purchase, _his_ to give away or keep.

Bobby clears his throat from the doorway by the kitchen, eyeing him with concern and awkwardly rubbing his baseball cap. “You doing okay there, Cas?”

Cas avoids looking at him. He silently goes back to opening boxes and sorting Snuggies and emotions. Later he leaves a nice grey-and-red plaid one on Bobby’s bed. Bobby snorts when he sees it, but stows it carefully in his closet.

_____________

The next morning, Cas has positioned one of the porch chairs for optimal surveillance of the yard, and from this watchful perch is squinting happily into the morning sun. It’s mostly quiet, with a few birds chirping industriously from a nearby tree. He picks at the blue Snuggie that enfolds him and relaxes. Relaxes, that is, until the sound of the Impala approaching fills the morning air—then he straightens up and balefully eyes a mound of clothes positioned on the lawn by the driveway.

The Impala pulls up, and he and Dean stare at each other through the windshield. Dean considers Cas warily; it is rare he has a welcoming party. Cas’s eyes narrow, with one eyebrow raised in calculation before he flicks his fingers. Dean flinches at a sudden burst of fire outside on the lawn. He turns off the car and quickly exits to stand on the edge of the lawn, staring at the small bonfire that did not exist two seconds ago. 

“Cas! What the fuck? Are those my clothes?!"

“Does it matter?” Cas is studiously indifferent. 

Dean splutters, alarmed. “Of course it matters! They're _my clothes_ —what the hell?”

“Oh, you care about ownership now?” Cas eyes Dean flatly. “I couldn’t tell, the way you stole from me yesterday.”

Dean moves towards the fire cautiously, shooting glances back at Cas. “Fuck, Cas. Is this really about the damned Snuggie?”

“It was a _limited edition_ , Dean,” Cas’s gaze hardens. Rulers have quailed and fallen before this gaze. “And you gave it to _Candy_.”

Dean stops and stares at Cas, then stares back at the pile of _all his clothes, shit,_ burning merrily in front of him. He ignores the pang of guilt; he’s getting real good at that. He considers his options, none of them good.

“Okay, Cas, you’re right. I was an ass, and I’m sorry. I won’t take any more of your Snuggies without permission and can you _please stop burning my clothes?_ ” He can’t quite keep a thread of desperation out of his voice, at the end.

Cas eyes him stonily. “Do you promise?”

“Yes, Cas, fuck, I promise. I will not touch your damned Snuggies.”

Cas tilts his head and considers. Generations of fruit flies are born and die. He flicks his fingers again, and the fire snuffs out as if it had never existed. Dean approaches the clothes pile, expecting to find only charred remnants, but…he stares back at Cas, wide-eyed. Cas looks smug. 

“Thanks,” Dean breathes, as he gathers up his _completely untouched_ clothing from the ground. _Do not mess with the angel’s possessions, check._ He carefully avoids any contact, eye or otherwise, as he crosses the porch. 

Cas surveys the sunlit lawn serenely, happily warm in the fuzzy blue spoils of war. 

Dean brushes past Bobby on his way up to his room and glares at him. The unspoken complaint of _years of having each other’s backs, what happened_ hangs heavily in the air.

Bobby just gives him a resigned look and grumbles, “Well, what did you expect, idjit? You took his damned Snuggie.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bobby's last line credit to MollyC. Thanks for letting me use it Molly!
> 
> Again indebted to aerialiste, kitt3nz and wobblesome for excellent beta advice, with additional assists from deanswingsbothways and blue_morning.


End file.
